Deirdre Reilly: Moms can be Guitar Heroes, too

Deirdre Reilly

Monday

Dec 31, 2007 at 12:01 AMDec 31, 2007 at 10:46 AM

Finally, I am a hero. I always thought I would be – I thought maybe I’d have the opportunity some time to rescue someone from some cracking ice, or uncover a scandal somewhere in our town, or at least rescue a crate of puppies at a bus stop or something. But no, fate had a different plan for me – it turns out I am a Guitar Hero (III).

Finally, I am a hero. I always thought I would be – I thought maybe I’d have the opportunity some time to rescue someone from some cracking ice, or uncover a scandal somewhere in our town, or at least rescue a crate of puppies at a bus stop or something. But no, fate had a different plan for me – it turns out I am a Guitar Hero (III).
“Guitar Hero” is a video game I bought for my older sons for Christmas, and at the time, I had not one whit of interest in it (I am still bristling from their ringing laughter when I crashed my car in “Driver II,” and I remember the aching boredom of “Bass Fishing” on video – fish have never seemed more drugged.) I am just not the video game type.
Or so I thought, until “Guitar Hero III” came roaring into my life. It started like this – my 18-year-old son was down in our basement playing it, along with our 8-year-old, who is also a casualty of the game. I was bringing down laundry, and I remember laughing – I actually laughed at my future back then – as they plucked plastic guitars that looked like the Fisher Price guitars they used to bang on back when they were toddlers. The screen in front of them was showing two cartoon heavy-metal rock stars, and some notes streaming across the screen, which they were to hit on their little guitars. The basement air was filled with the sounds of Mountain’s “Mississippi Queen” as they played along. I threw the laundry in and re-wrapped my pink fluffy bathrobe that is embroidered across the back with “Let’s Focus on Me” (how eerily true those words would become.) In slow motion it seemed, the way truly important moments in your life are showed in movies, my 8-year-old laughed and said, winking at his brother, “Hey, Mom, want to try this out?”
I laughed, too – look at his little face, shining in the dim basement air, head bobbing to the beats of Pat Benetar’s “Hit Me with Your Best Shot.” Was there ever a sweeter Christmas tableau? “Sure,” I answered, sitting next to him. Again in slow motion, he said, “Here’s your guitar,” and handed me a guitar that weighed as much as a postage stamp. It felt good; it felt right. “Let’s go,” I nodded to my 18-year-old, who rolled his eyes and started up a new song, Foghat’s “Slowride.” “Just follow the notes, Mom,” he said, and we began to rock it all night.
Sadly, I do mean all night – this video game should not be rated “T,” for “Teen,” but “HW,” for “Housewife.” Apparently I have some unresolved latent rock-and-roll issues, which, if coupled with talent, could have really led me places. But since I just have issues with no talent, I had to rock until I could rock no more. “Mom, Grammy’s on the phone,” my oldest son yelled down the stairs, as I sat, still in my robe, plastic guitar strap over my shoulder, tiny guitar in my lap. “Tell her I’ll call her back – tell everyone I’ll call them back, I’ve already told you that,” I yelled up the stairs, frustrated at being distracted. I looked at my 18-year-old, who was quietly texting pleas for help from his cell phone to anyone who would read them. “Start up ‘Story of my Life’ by Social Distortion, I’ve got that one down,” I directed, taking a sip of cold coffee. “Mom, I’ve got to go, I have a life,” he mumbled, and I replied, eyes never leaving the screen, “Send someone down – get your dad. He’s napping on the couch; go wake him up.”
Luckily, my husband is pretty competitive, and we’re pretty competitive with each other – it’s one of the intangibles that makes our marriage work, our interest in beating the other at anything, any time. He once kept me up until 3 a.m. because I was winning at Trivial Pursuit; I finally had to fake-lose by giving wrong answers to questions I knew. So he came right down when he heard I was still playing “Guitar Hero” from earlier that morning. He kind of blinked when he saw me – hair uncombed, robe sloppy (my 8-year-old and I had been standing up, back-to-back rocking), dark circles under my eyes from staring at the TV screen. “Let’s do this,” I said, not even looking at him, throwing him a guitar. “You got it,” he said, sitting beside me. We chose Heart’s “Barracuda” and began to play. Tears filled my eyes – it was so romantic, playing together. It was like we were bandmates! Rock on!
Long story short; he won, he gloated, he left. I was dejected until my oldest son came downstairs. He plays guitar in a real band, so I got him to give me a few pointers (“Keep it real, Mom, feel the music”). He is amazing at the game; they should just drop the real band and be a “Guitar Hero” band. I am challenging my husband soon, after more practice. I can hardly wait. He is going down.
So, I am finally a hero. And you know what? It feels all right!
You can connect with Deirdre at www.exhaustedrapunzel.com.

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